


Swapping Setters

by calderaNightOwl



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Gen, M/M, Olympics, Sexual Content, Tokyo 2020 Summer Olympics, Volleyball, honestly there's more volleyball than sex in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calderaNightOwl/pseuds/calderaNightOwl
Summary: It’s the day before the 2020 Olympic Men’s Indoor Volleyball Finals in Tokyo. Half the US team is already off the roster, self-quarantining out of an overabundance of caution. Then Spock gets injured.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Nyota Uhura, James T. Kirk & Spock, James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock, implied Spock/Nyota Uhura
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Swapping Setters

**Author's Note:**

> Since we couldn’t have the actual Summer Olympics this year, have this Volleyball AU instead.
> 
> Fair warning: this story may be confusing if you’re not familiar with volleyball.
> 
> Some (aged-up) cameo characters are borrowed out of the Haikyuu fandom for the Japanese team. No familiarity with Haikyuu is needed. It’s somewhat unlikely that Japan will make it to the final gold medal match in real life, since typically in recent years, the US, Brazil, Italy, and Russia tend to dominate the men’s volleyball competition, but let’s show some love to the (fictional) Japanese home team.
> 
> Fun volleyball trivia (sourced from Wikipedia):  
> The hosting country for the Olympics automatically qualifies as one of twelve teams that get to play in the tournament-style volleyball competition, so the real Japanese team will play when the real 2020 Olympics actually happens in 2021. The last time the Japanese men’s team qualified was 2008, when they tied for 11th place. The last time they placed on the podium was 1972, when they won the gold medal.
> 
> If you think this deserves an explicit rating, let me know in the comments and I'll up the rating. I was going back and forth because the intent of this is not porn.

Jim and Spock are peppering for warm-up when it happens.

Bump. Set. Spike.

Bump.

Set.

Spike.

Every smack against Jim’s forearms is a test of his reflexes. Every touch against his fingertips an exercise in control. Every contact against his palm an outlet for his power.

Jim’s eyes follow the yellow and blue spinning swirls of the ball along each arc of its motion.

The ball doesn’t drop.

They could do this for hours. Spock’s control is legendary.

Spock sets it up, his hands pushing out from just in front of his forehead, elbows straightening, arms extending further, further.

The set is perfect. Jim watches it fall from mid-air. He draws his elbow back past his ear, waiting for the right moment.

Now.

Jim whips his arm forward, swinging his entire body weight from back foot to front, allowing the momentum of the motion to help propel the ball forward. His wrist snaps down, following through.

It’s a split second for the ball to cross the ten feet or so separating Jim from Spock.

Jim’s hit is a touch too high. Spock brings his hands up to take it overhead. He’s a moment too late.

Crack.

Spock doesn’t shout or scream.

He clutches his left hand with his right, eyes shut, biting down the pain.

Off in the distance, the smack of the ball plopping down onto the glossy gymnasium floor is lost amongst the familiar squeak of sneakers.

Jim rushes over. “Spock? You ok?” He asks even though the answer is obvious.

Spock opens his eyes with grim determination. “The most likely outcome is that I will live.”

Jim’s lips thin in a close-mouthed grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Come on. We better get you to a doctor.” Jim’s hand moves to slap Spock on the shoulder. A show of camaraderie he’s done hundreds of times before. But he stops short. He doesn’t want to jolt Spock into more pain.

The squeak of sneakers on and around their court totally ceases. It’s dead quiet in a gym that’s usually brimming with noise. Most of the rest of the team stands by with their necks craned, watching. Even that asshole Khan loses the arrogantly amused expression he usually wears.

“We’ll be back soon. Spock’ll be as good as new.” Jim assures everyone as he ushers Spock toward the double doors.

As the doors swing shut behind them, Jim hears Coach Pike call out, “Back to practice everybody! Spock wouldn’t want you wasting time you could be using to optimize your performance, now would he?”

Jim and Spock don’t speak as they walk down the eerily silent hallway of the practice facility. Spock, because he doesn’t believe in platitudes or the illogical nature of lies intended to make you feel better. Jim, because a worrying thread of guilt lurks at the back of his mind. That was _his_ ball that went high. _His_ fault that Spock got hurt.

Spock has to be ok. More than half the team is already barred from playing because they’re stuck in self-quarantine over a possible coronavirus exposure.

Jim grits his teeth and tries to imagine playing down one man in tomorrow’s final gold-medal match. Because in all of Spock’s likelihoods that’s what’s most probably going to happen. And as team captain, it’s Jim’s job to prepare for the eventuality.

Five players out of a usual six-man lineup. They’re already at a disadvantage with only six players qualified to be on the roster. Because there will be no substitutions, no breaks, in a match likely to stretch on well past two hours. Possibly into three, or even four hours of non-stop play.

Five players is not against the rules. It’s technically doable. It just means a sacrifice somewhere on the defense.

A hole in the block. Or more square footage of area to cover in the back row. Further distance to travel, which means players will become more easily exhausted.

Five isn’t too terrible of a problem if it wasn’t for the fact that the one man they’ll be down is Spock.

The team’s setter.

The crucial link between defense and offense. The quarterback of volleyball. The player who touches the ball on every single play. The one who calls the shots, decides the strategy, and chooses the attack.

A lot of setters choose between an outside, middle, or right-side attack on instinct. Who’s been killing it today? Who’s tired? Who is the other team actively trying to block?

Spock doesn’t set based on instinct. He runs the numbers. The man is a bona fide genius, with the ability to calculate attack ratios and kill percentages on-the-fly midgame.

Jim doesn’t like to think of any one player as irreplaceable. This is a team sport, after all, and there’s no ‘I’ in team.

Still, Spock’s loss will be felt acutely.

They reach the locker rooms. There on the other side of the showers is another set of doors that leads into the sports medicine rooms.

Jim’s been in places like these thousands of times before. He gets his shoulder taped before every match by the physio-therapist Christine. And he had an ice bath for his ankle on his second day here over in the stadium’s corresponding set of rooms.

“I’ve got Hendorff’s nasal swab back.” That’s Christine’s voice coming out the open doors.

“Finally. That man is an infant. It’s just a little bit of cotton. Whoever keeps saying the swab touches all the way back to the brain needs a remedial anatomy lesson.” Is the huffed out reply that Jim attributes to the only other person in the room when Jim and Spock cross the threshold from concrete to white tile flooring in the makeshift laboratory.

Jim recognizes a PCR machine amongst other equipment, test tubes in various holders, stacks and stacks of the sealed, sterile nasal swabs, micro-pipettes, and dozens of chemicals in neatly labeled jars, all lined up in a row.

Spock is stoically silent, so it’s left to Jim to announce their presence.

“Christine?”

It’s the man who looks up at the pair of them. Jim thinks he looks familiar, but it must just be from seeing him around. Of the hundred or so support staff, only a few dozen considered absolutely essential ended up coming out to Japan.

“What is it?” The man says. Christine pauses in snapping on a pair of gloves to watch.

Spock says, “I am ninety-eight percent certain the middle finger of my left hand is broken.” And Jim cringes to hear it put so bluntly. If only it were just a sprain. If only it wasn’t Spock’s _hand_. “Specifically, the middle phalanx.”

“Let’s see it.” The man motions for Spock to hold out his arm.

Spock flinches when the man prods the already swelling finger.

“Oh, yeah. That’s definitely broken.” He turns Spock’s hand over to examine the other side. “Only question is whether or not they’re gonna want to put a screw in there before it gets splinted. Christine are you free to take him to get an x-ray?”

“I am if you can handle finishing these tests on your own.” Christine’s already disposing the purple gloves into a trash can.

Jim turns to go with Spock and Christine when Christine says, “Not you. I can take him from here.”

“But-”

“Jim. You have fulfilled your duty to escort me to additional help. Now you may return to practice.” Spock’s eyebrows do that thing they do when Jim is being willfully disobedient. Then Spock turns to the man and gives him an obliging nod. “Thank you for the assistance, Doctor McCoy.”

Jim stands there, speechless, for a few seconds even after they leave.

“Don’t you have a practice to be getting back to?” McCoy says, and Jim looks at him, really looks at him. The track pants and t-shirt in USA’s red and blue team colors adorned with the Olympic rings. The white lab coat thrown over top, the blue stitch of Dr. Leonard McCoy’s embroidered name above the breast pocket.

Leonard McCoy.

Wait.

“You’re Bones!” Jim realizes.

Bones turns away, muttering, “That nickname never made a lick of sense.”

“Bones McCoy.” Jim recites. “Libero for the men’s national team for the seasons of 2017 and 2018.”

“And what of it?” Bones resumes his science in the space of his workbench.

Jim doesn’t have a special reason for mentioning it. Except then his mind is racing, and,

“You played setter sometimes when they ran a 6-2. You’d sub in for the right-side hitter when he rotated to the back row.”

Bones caps and shakes a test tube but doesn’t respond.

“You were good. Seriously good. Probably would have made the Olympic team if you hadn’t retired so soon.” Jim continues.

Bones slams the tube down with more force than strictly necessary, rattling the whole rack of tubes.

“What the hell are you getting at?” Bones growls, dark and dangerous. His murderous glare affixed to the countertop in front of him.

“Why’d you quit? Your career was just getting started.”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about my career.” Bones backs away from his table, giving him enough distance, so that when he whirls around he doesn’t knock any of the glassware over. He bites out, “My career. Is being a doctor. Volleyball. Is a hobby. A distraction.”

“You don’t mean that.” Bones is parroting someone else’s words. He must be. Nobody who chases a ball with all of their exertions could dismiss the sport so easily. Jim had seen game footage of Bones, while Jim was still playing for a college scholarship at UCSF.

They stare at each other. Bones draws in breath and lets it out. Twice he frowns and opens his mouth to start speaking, but each time he lets it go and they return to their strange stalemate.

Assistant Coach Uhura walks in through the open doorway. A brief hesitation as she takes in the tense atmosphere in the room.

“Kirk? We need you back in practice. What’s the update on Spock?”

“Christine took him for an x-ray.” Bones answers, still staring Jim down.

And Jim turns away, breaking the eye-contact. But only because his teammates need him.

Five. They have to figure out how to play with five.

◦◦◦

Practice is an absolute clusterfuck. In the long hallway on the walk back, Uhura informs him that he missed serving, and some defensive drills. The kind in which Pike stands on a ramshackle wooden box to get over the height of the net-line and hits ball after ball down into the court below him.

They get one ball each. A dig. A pancake. A dive. Doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is moving your feet, getting under the ball before it hits the floor and angling your body so the contact reflects the ball in the correct direction. Back towards the front of the court. Slightly off the right of the middle. Close to the net.

Where the setter should be. If Spock was here.

Jim walks in on Pike’s disappointed face. That is not a good sign. Pike hits two more before he ends the drill.

Hikaru manages to pop the ball up towards mid-court, but it’s not nearly high enough for a setter to get under before it drops.

Scotty is too slow on a brutally fast hit down the line, deep into the back right corner of the court. There’s no touch before the ball slams down.

Pike climbs down from his soapbox. “That’s enough of that. You all better be ready to block. Because if that’s the best defense you can come up with, say goodbye to the gold.”

This kind of talk isn’t unusual. It’s just the kind of thing that lights a fire under everyone’s asses to get them playing their best. What’s new is the way the talk of _not_ performing well hits a nerve.

Jim’s teammates filter off the court for water in the break between drills.

Pavel hovers next to Jim, guzzling water, as Jim checks the laces on his shoes for the third time.

Jim tries not to sigh. “Spock’ll be fine.”

“Iz not Spock I worry about.” Pavel’s face contorts into a familiar concerned expression.

“We’ll be fine.” Jim assures, and when that doesn’t eradicate the nervous glint in Pavel’s eyes, he continues. “ _I’ll_ be fine. Winning isn’t everything.”

Khan surprises Jim by clapping him on the back. “But winning is a fair majority of it, though isn’t it? Winning is what we came here to do. And as much as I’m loath to admit otherwise, Spock on our side increases our chances of winning.”

“Winning is a team effort. Spock couldn’t win alone. You can’t win alone. I can’t win alone. Tomorrow we will play _together_. Each of us contributing our strengths to win.” Jim speaks with a quiet confidence he doesn’t quite feel.

“Yes, captain! Good to have you back.” Scotty says.

It’s a good idea, in theory. Five talented, Olympic-caliber athletes coming together to play and win. Adapting to changing circumstances. Rising up to meet adversity in the face, telling adversity to fuck off, and then winning anyways.

They try every possible line-up rotation. None of them works.

Pavel has good hands. But he’s too used to taking control of the back-court as libero. He calls the ball even when it shouldn’t be his. Every ball he takes on first contact is one he can’t set on second.

Scotty’s too slow. When the ball gets passed to him perfectly, he can set just fine. But nobody is perfect. He loses his finesse and control whenever he’s forced to run after an errant pass.

Hikaru should be the best of both worlds in that sense at least. He leaves the pass to Pavel. He’s got the finesse and control on the set. He’s light on his feet, making up the ground even to imperfect passes. What he lacks is the game sense.

He sets Khan high on the middle when Khan comes in for a quick. He shoots Jim a low set on the outside, when all of Jim’s best hits come from sets that are high and off the net.

It’s a chemistry. A balance. Some secret rhythm that exists between a setter and a hitter. They read you. You read them.

The ball’s in motion. Everyone is screaming. You are screaming. Outside. Outside! OUTSIDE!! Because you want that set. You want the opportunity to take control of the play.

Your arm is up and waving. Your feet move, propelling your whole body forward: right, …, left, … Right-Left! You jump. You fly. You still don’t know if the ball is coming to you.

The net is right there, close-up in front of your face. It’s made more of empty space than knotted fiber. You’re closer to the opponents than your own team. It’s a foot separating you from them. Maybe less.

They’re in the air too. Following you. Trying to block you. Their hands go high reaching over the plane of the net into your air, your half of the court.

The ball leaves the setter’s hands. You track it with your eyes. You swing your arm-

You meet air.

The ball goes to the middle hitter.

But you’ve attracted the attention of the opposing team. You’ve drawn off the block. The middle hitter kills it.

Smack. The other team’s libero can’t even touch the ball.

Tweeeeet. The ref’s whistle blows. The crowd roars.

“Nice hit.” You congratulate the middle in between plays. You slap hands in acknowledgement.

Next play. This one’s yours.

Serves up. Service received. You back off the net to the ten-foot line. Outside. Outside! OUTSIDE!! You scream.

The setter reads you. You read the setter.

Right, …, left, … Right-Left. You run forward, transitioning all of your momentum up, up.

Arms up, back. Swing. This hit’s yours.

You kill it.

That’s what it’s supposed to be like. An effortless display of communication and coordination.

The naïve would think Spock would be bad at it because he doesn’t emote. In fact, the opposite is true. Spock’s poker face makes it that much harder for the opposing team to read him.

The block hesitates, doesn’t leave until the set goes out.

The hitters all trust Spock implicitly. When he sets Jim on the outside, Jim knows exactly how fast, how high, and how far off the net the ball’s trajectory is coming in at. He moves before he knows he’s being set. Because if he _does_ get set, that’s exactly when he needs to leave to meet the ball.

Khan’s set is perfect with finesse and control. He gets under the ball on errant passes. He has the game sense. He knows how high and how fast and how far off the net everyone likes their sets.

But no one trusts Khan. Because he’s an ass. The set is perfect, but the rhythm’s off, the hitter’s late. And trust is a thing that cannot be built overnight.

Jim is the only one whose set has any chance of being playable. That’s just how it is. In a team sport like this, you have to acknowledge strengths and weaknesses and work with them.

Jim has the control. He has the speed. He has rhythm, and his teammates’ trust.

It’s still not enough.

Bump. Set.

Without Jim on the hit, the offensive line is weak. Jim’s the star hitter.

The play is a hierarchy of coordination. A pyramid with each successive contact building on the one before.

With Jim playing setter they can have: Bump. Set. … spike …

Without Jim as setter they can have: Bump. ~~Set. Spike!~~

It’s a mess.

◦◦◦

Jim skips the team dinner after practice, heads straight back to the hotel room instead of hitting the showers in the locker room with the rest of the team.

Out of the hotel shower, he drops his towel and quickly pulls on his clothes: a set of sweats, the lanyard with ID over his t-shirt, his black socks and slides. He tucks his court shoes and wallet into the uniform backpack.

He would normally share his hotel room with a teammate. But in the spirit of social distancing, and since only a third of support staff are on-site leaving a whole bank of reserved unused hotel rooms, Jim has his own room. He shuts off the lights as he leaves.

He waits outside Uhura’s hotel door, re-watching the game footage from Japan’s last match on his phone. Their setter, Kageyama Tobio would be a match for Spock on a good day.

Uhura exits the elevator and walks up. She scoffs and rolls her eyes when she sees Jim sitting on the carpet, leant back against the wall.

“What are you doing here? You missed spaghetti.” Jim stands. “Do you know how hard it is finding ingredients for that meal in a grocery store where all the aisles are labeled in Japanese?” She digs around for her key card. “Team dinners were your idea, _Captain_. Who was it that said, ‘carb-loading is the key to success’? And ‘a team dinner isn’t a team dinner unless it’s homemade’? Oh, yeah, you. It’s not good for morale to see you missing.”

“I need Bones’ room number.”

“Try again.” Uhura pushes her door open and enters. “That doesn’t sound like an apology or an excuse.”

“Nyota, please.” Jim says, grabbing the edge of the door before she can close it on him. And the use of her first name catches her full undivided attention. He _never_ calls her that.

“Ok. I’ll bite.” She says. “But even if I wanted to help, I would have to know: who’s Bones?”

“Leonard McCoy. The team doctor.”

She stares at him. “Bones McCoy from the men’s national team?”

“Yes.” Jim stares back, trying to be patient, but loses and says, “I need his room number.”

“The rules committee would never allow it.” Uhura says even as she reaches back for her phone and starts swiping away.

The fact that Uhura even acknowledges Jim’s idea as implausible is enough confirmation to Jim that it is _an_ idea, however wild, in order for him to run with it.

“‘This is an unprecedented time and an unprecedented Olympic games.’” Jim quotes from one of the speeches in the opening ceremony. “Discretion is left up to the coaching staff for a lot of weird shit. And it’s not like he’s some random guy off the street. He’s already been cleared through the background check to be support staff.”

Uhura’s eyes flick up from her screen. “This still might not work, Jim. Throwing an unknown into the equation could make everything worse. He’s been retired for almost two years, now.”

Jim waves her off. “Leave that to me. You just have to get Pike on board, ok?”

“Easier said than done. McCoy’s in room 657. And you did not get that from me.”

“Thanks.”

Two steps down the hall, Jim glances back over his shoulder. “Spock’s room is right across from mine. 432. But you already knew that didn’t you?” Jim smirks at her and wags his eyebrows. “He could probably use a little _consolation_ if you get my drift.”

Uhura splutters. “Get out of here.” Oh, yeah, she’s definitely going to visit Spock.

◦◦◦

Jim pounds on McCoy’s door. No one answers, but Jim knows he’s in there because he can hear the low murmuring sounds of the TV in the background. It’s tuned to some recap of the week’s Olympic events. The commentator talks through the intricacies of starter-block form in the 100 meter dash.

Jim pounds some more.

There’s shuffling, then the door opens. McCoy looks just like he did this afternoon, minus the lab coat. He’s entirely unimpressed with Jim’s existence on the face of this planet, let alone his existence in this hallway outside his hotel room.

“No.”

The door shuts with a click.

“You didn’t even hear me out!”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. I will listen to you if you come to me with a medical problem. Because I’m a professional.” Bones’ voice is clear and firm even through the solid two inches of wood separating him from Jim. “Is this in any way medically related?”

“No.” Jim admits.

“Then I will not stand here and listen to you disparage my career or my life choices.”

Jim lays one hand on the closed door and mutters back insolently, “No, you seem to be doing enough disparaging all on your own. Volleyball, a hobby? Seriously?”

He’s preparing to turn around and call this whole idea a wash when the door opens again to reveal a spitting furious Bones. His fists are clenched. His eyebrows drawn tight. His whole demeanor screaming with a barely restrained urge to deck Jim across the face.

His rage only ignites a flame of anger in Jim as response. You can’t make it all the way to the men’s national team on a whim. Or as a fucking _hobby_ , Jim thinks derisively. The dedication it takes to drill day-in and day-out would make it next to impossible.

“What are you even doing here?”

“What am I doing at my own hotel room?” Bones raises one of those pinched eyebrows.

“You know what I mean.” Jim’s hands gesture wide at the hotel, but more generally and meaningfully at Tokyo, the home of the 2020 _Olympics_. “If you really didn’t care about volleyball, you could have picked any town in America to practice medicine.”

A vein pops out of Bones’ forehead and he takes a step forward, advancing on Jim. “It’s that easy, huh? You ever stop to think that this is the only job I could get? That a years-long hiatus from med-school doesn’t exactly do wonders for your job prospects?”

“Even if that were true, it wouldn’t explain why you’re torturing yourself like this! Dangling the ghost of what you could have had in front of your face every day! There must have been some other option!”

Bones loses it then. He grabs the front of Jim’s shirt and shoves Jim against the doorframe. Jim jolts with the reverberation as his head knocks back.

“Do. Not. Talk. About things you don’t understand.”

And Jim’s traitorous mouth never could keep shut, so he just goes on talking. “No! Because I understand perfectly. You have it. That drive!” Jim presses his pointer finger into the center of Bones’ chest, he narrows his eyes. “You have to stop deluding yourself, man! You have that need to be pushed to the limit and tested. To be forged by the pressure into excellence.”

Jim’s voice goes harder and deeper the longer he speaks. “And if you can’t do it yourself, you’ll take it anyway you can get it. By surrounding yourself with it. So you can feel the thrill of the adrenaline from being at match point, and the serve gets tossed up, and everybody in the whole room waits anxiously, not even breathing.” He pauses, looks straight into Bones’ unwavering gaze. Something cracks between them. Bones’ breath starts coming out ragged and heavy, to match the weight already in his stare and the tension already in his shoulders.

“Even if it’s secondhand. Even if it hurts to be around, you’ll be here. Even if it tears you up inside to watch what you can’t have, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. I understand that. I understand you.” Jim wants to shake the man with his conviction. “But don’t you dare say that volleyball isn’t important to you.”

Bones doesn’t move, seemingly not responding at all to Jim’s passion. Every puff of air exhales directly onto Jim’s face. His expression is still pure fury.

Jim edges forward-

And freezes, surprised. There. Pressing into Jim, Bones is sporting an erection. A rage boner.

Silence.

Bones has to know that Jim can feel just how aroused he is. They still don’t move apart.

Jim stands there, pressed into Bones, staring into those hazel eyes, and his own blood starts to warm. Zips of tingles spark along his nerves. He flushes hot, then cold, then hot again.

Jim’s body responds in kind.

The next thing Jim knows, there’s a hand tugging at the waistband of his sweats. A palm pulling at his cock.

In the space of fifteen seconds, Jim goes from his most unconventional motivational pep-talk ever to a dazed kind of shock at the quick upswell of his own arousal to receiving the most aggressive hate-sex blowjob of his life, as Bones drops to his knees in front of Jim.

It feels like some kind of punishment, how rough and fast he’s going. How deep he takes Jim in. The only thing Jim can’t figure out is whether or not the punishment is meant for Jim or Bones himself.

They’re still in the middle of the doorway. Anybody in the hall could walk up and see them. That, along with the demanding unrelentless wet heat suction of Bones’ mouth, and the hard press of Bones’ hands holding his hips still, even as Jim tries to thrust, makes him embarrassingly turned on.

“Ugnh.” Jim moans, unable to put together coherent sentences.

Oh, god. This man, with his angry glaring eyes looking up, and his mouth stuffed full, is on his knees for Jim.

Jim comes in less than two minutes.

Bones swallows, pulls off, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes still cut at Jim like ice daggers.

“My wife gave me a fucking ultimatum, you asshole. Quit volleyball for a real career or she’d divorce me. What would you choose?”

Bones shoves Jim completely out into the hall and slams the door in his face.

Jim is still buzzing from the afterglow of his orgasm. And his only thought is: Bones didn’t come.

“Wait! You’re married?!”

Bones doesn’t answer.

◦◦◦

Jim stands in the hallway for another fifteen minutes, before he comes up with a new plan. He goes back to his room for his charging cable and portable battery. His phone is on its last legs of life after watching the Japanese team’s game footage all through dinner.

He returns to sit against the wall across the hall outside Bones’ door. Admittedly, this plan is only slightly different from the last plan. He listens for a minute to verify the low hum of TV noises that mean that Bones hasn’t left the room. Then he puts in his earbuds and pulls up a different set of game footage.

The men’s national team from 2018. The last season that Bones played.

Uhura wasn’t on the coaching staff then. She’s too young, she was a rising star in her own right on the women’s national team until a nasty ACL tear took her out of the competition and she pivoted to coaching. She probably hadn’t realized that their surly team doctor was a former player either.

Jim didn’t make the national team until the year after. One season and Jim barely missed playing with Bones.

The footage comes up, and there’s Spock, setting. Jim barely holds in a chortle. That emotionless bastard. He sees a former teammate for the first time in years, and all he gives Bones is a ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Jesus.

Pike was the coach back then. Scotty was on the team then too. So was Khan.

An unknown element, Jim’s ass. Bones should know all the plays. Spock wasn’t the starting setter, then, but Bones should still know the way Spock runs his team, and how he sets.

“Your signature serve is the jump floater.” Jim calls through the hotel door. He should be thankful the hotel is half-empty with the unused reserved rooms, so that nobody is around to come out saying that he’s bothering people with his loud hallway chatter.

Bones doesn’t respond, but the sounds of the TV dim. He’s listening.

“You didn’t get to serve a lot, because Pike liked to go for the more powerful jump topspin,” Serves like Jim’s and Spock’s, “and he’d let the front-row player serve before subbing you in. But he’d put you in to shake up the service order when we needed something unexpected.” Unlike a topspin serve, a float serve has almost zero spin on the ball, making it notoriously hard to read where it will drop.

“You’re actually a very good hitter, but you don’t jump very high. It’s probably some psychological block about being in the air because you’ve got the athleticism and the muscle to jump high if you wanted to. You prefer staying low to the ground.” Jim continues, and the door clicks open across the hall from him. Bones doesn’t interrupt, just watches as Jim keeps talking. “Which makes you excellent at back-row attacks. You’ve got the whole arsenal of skills: the serve, the pass, the set, the attack.”

Bones sighs, runs one hand down his face. “What exactly are you looking for here?”

“We need a setter tomorrow.”

“I’m not what you need.”

“You’re all we’ve got.”

“Gee. That’s really what you want to say to a guy to make him believe you want him.”

Jim groans. He stands up from his spot on the floor. “Just come to the gym with me for a bit. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Will you leave if I say no?”

“No.”

Bones almost cracks a smile at that. “I don’t have any gear.”

“They’ve got extras of everything in the locker rooms.”

◦◦◦

An hour later and Bones is cursing up a storm. His sets aren’t bad. But they aren’t exceptional either. And the consistency of a well-practiced player is definitely lacking.

“This was a terrible idea.” He catches the ball Jim tosses to him instead of setting it. Jim picks up another out of the cart he’s standing next to.

“Five more, then we can take a break.”

“No. You can just come out and say it. I’m rusty. I’m not as good as I used to be. I won’t be any help to you tomorrow.” Bones throws the ball back at Jim with a hefty amount of force before stalking off. Jim catches it before it smacks him in the chest and sets it in the cart.

Jim picks up the loose balls littering the edges of the court and wheels the cart back to the cage in the storage closet. He takes the pads down from the poles and unwinds the crank to loosen the net and let out the tension. The one nice thing about playing at this high-level is that he doesn’t need to disassemble the whole setup, because they don’t have to share gym-space.

Bones is sitting on a bench next to the lockers, hunched over, elbows on knees, running a towel over his face, when Jim catches up to him.

Jim approaches, and squats down in front of him, sitting on his heels. He lays one of his hands on Bones’ thigh and uses the other to pull the towel away to stop him from hiding his expression.

Bones turns away, sullen.

“Are you really married?”

Bones huffs. “Divorced. I gave up everything for her. Gave up on my dream for a more steady stable career. And she still divorced me.”

Jim cups Bones’ jaw to turn his face back towards Jim, and then Jim surprises himself by leaning in for a kiss. It’s tender, a gentle little nip of lips. It surprises him more that Bones allows it. Beyond even that, Bones melts into it, opening his mouth, deepening their connection.

Jim pulls back. “Can I fuck you?”

“If this is some kind of scheme to fuck me into a better mood-”

“No. Can’t I just want to fuck you? Besides when are you going to get the chance to fuck an Olympic athlete in a locker room the day before their gold medal match-up?”

Bones actually laughs at that. “You might be surprised. This city is chock full of Olympic athletes at the moment.”

Jim frowns, and this time Bones is the one turning Jim’s face back, using his thumb to smooth away the expression. Bones says, “You got any lube?” And Jim nods.

Jim goes for his locker, and the travel kit stashed in there. Along with lube, he has an impressive assortment of bandages, ointments, pills, and odds and ends that a professional athlete needs to maintain top shape even when running on empty.

Bones is naked laying down on the bench when Jim turns back around. Jim strips out of his own clothes and slicks up his fingers as he watches Bones play idly with his nipples.

“You look so hot doing that.” Jim says and Bones smirks.

Jim starts working Bones open.

The bench is a little too narrow, situated as it is in the middle of the aisle of lockers. Jim keeps one foot braced on the ground and tries to keep his body weight off of Bones as he leans over him.

Jim gets a full health work-up courtesy of the US Olympic team, at least once a month, even more often these last few weeks. Bones, as team doctor should have seen the results at some point to know he’s clean.

Jim lines up and pushes in. He starts a slow, steady pace.

“Give it to me. Harder.”

Jim jerks forward in his motions, and Bones’ mouth falls open in a gasp, one hand reaching up to clutch at Jim’s shoulder.

Jim reaches down to grip Bones’ cock, starts jacking him. He pounds into Bones furiously, leans up to say straight into Bones ear, “You’ll think about this tomorrow. You’ll see me playing on that court and think about my cock shoved up inside you”

Bones groans and the sound is a small thing under the slapping smacks of their bodies coming together, again, and again.

“We’ll win and get up on that podium for the medals. And all you’ll be able to do is wonder how much better it’ll be when I’m fucking you with the gold around my neck.”

Bones lifts one leg to hook around Jim’s backside and pulls him even closer. He shifts his face so he’s speaking directly in Jim’s ear in return.

“Do you always talk this much during sex?”

“You like it?”

There’s a throaty groan in reply as Jim hits a new angle, and Jim thinks he’s found it. Bones’ sweet spot.

“Just. Come here.” Then Bones’ hands move and he’s pulling Jim’s face into place and they’re kissing again. A luxurious slow heat compared to the pace of his hips.

Jim was sweaty when he walked into the locker room from practicing sets and hitting with Bones. His body is absolutely drenched now. His foot loses traction against the glossed concrete floors. He slides, off-balance, and then they’re falling. Off the bench. Jim slips out of Bones’ body. They land in a tangle of limbs on the hard concrete.

“Inside. Now.” Bones growls out, fast and urgent as he rolls over onto his hands and knees.

Jim sits up and complies. The smell of the locker room is even stronger down here, like feet and dirty socks. But Bones is right there, and Jim’s taking him. Rutting like animals on this grimy, nasty floor. It’s better like this, Bones pushes back, meeting him thrust for thrust.

Jim reaches around to grip Bones’ cock once more.

“I’m close.” Is all the warning he gets before Bones shudders beneath him. Bones clenches down on Jim, and then he’s coming too.

He stays inside of Bones for a moment as he softens, breathing in the scent of Bones’ neck before he pulls out.

Bones slumps down to the ground.

Jim joins him, maneuvering closer. They stay like that, huddled naked on the floor, for far longer than anyone could ever reasonably find cold concrete comfortable.

“Come on. Showers are right there.” Jim says.

Bones groans. “You’re not going to make me go back and practice more, are you?”

Jim just laughs.

◦◦◦

Jim does not make Bones go back to practice that night. They each go back to their respective hotel rooms. But at six o’clock on the dot, Jim shows up bright and cheery to knock politely at Bones’ hotel door.

“Fuck off.” Bones answers the door shirtless, and Jim takes the opportunity to roam his eyes over that magnificent expanse of skin.

“Morning.” Jim smiles and leans in for a peck, which Bones allows through his scowl. “We’ve got practice at 6:30. Pavel and Hikaru said they’d come by at around 8. The rest of the team will show up at 10.” Their match against Japan is scheduled for the late afternoon.

Bones rolls his eyes but he leaves the door open for Jim to follow him into the hotel room as Bones gathers his borrowed gear.

◦◦◦

Spock and Uhura are in the practice gym when Jim and Bones arrive. Jim manages to refrain from commenting on the fact that Spock and Uhura are here together at such an early hour.

Spock is standing next to one of those roll-away whiteboards, a marker in his right hand. Uhura’s head is bent close, the two of them conferring. A series of plays are drawn onto the board, along with three different alternative lineups, with Bones’ name written in red dry-erase as the setter, alongside the rest of the team’s names and usual positions in black.

Jim eyes gravitate toward one particular arrangement:

1\. Bones – Setter  
2\. Jim – Outside Hitter  
3\. Pavel – Libero  
4\. Hikaru – Right-Side Hitter  
5\. Scotty – Outside Hitter  
6\. Khan – Middle Blocker

That lineup has the most coverage for the team’s weaknesses. Pavel won’t be playing libero in the traditional sense since he’ll rotate through to the front row. By putting Jim and Hikaru next to Pavel, the offense will be more balanced, even if Pavel’s hits are weak.

Likewise, Khan will have to pickup some digs in the back row. And Bones, as a former libero, should be able to help out on the defense. In the few instances when Bones takes the receive, Hikaru should be able to play back-up setter decently enough.

It’s not perfect. But it’s better than yesterday’s mess.

A series of greetings goes around, as Jim and Bones approach.

“Heya, Spock.” Jim nods at them. “Uhura.”

“Jim.” Spock nods back. “Doctor McCoy. Good morning.”

“Hobgoblin.” Bones says, and there’s a trace of affection in the undertone that Jim’s just starting to recognize. “I see they splinted your finger. No surgery I take it?”

Uhura answers. “No. Thankfully, they said it should only take six to eight weeks to heal. If all goes well, he should be back ready to play by next season.” Uhura holds out a hand to shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you before.”

Bones shakes it. “I wasn’t exactly advertising.”

“Did you get Pike on board?” Jim asks Uhura.

“Mmhm. He’s preparing a list of reasons for the rules committee as we speak.”

Then, they move into practice mode. There’s no time to waste. The plays on the board will have to wait until later, when more of the team shows up. For now, Uhura tosses balls out of the cart for Bones to set, and Jim gets to practice hitting without the added complication of tossing for his own hits.

Spock stands there, watching everything critically. He pipes in with comments after almost every other play.

“Doctor McCoy, your left elbow did not finish its extension.”

“Fuck, Spock. I know. I’m trying to fix it. Would you just shut up?” Bones says. But on the very next set he extends further, as if to prove Spock wrong.

Spock’s special brand of antagonism seems to be working much better for motivating Bones than Jim managed yesterday. Each time Bones messes up and starts seeming frustrated, his irritation with Spock distracts him and overrides the sense of embarrassment from playing at below an Olympic level.

Jim would almost hazard a guess that Spock may end up in coaching after he retires. But then Spock says things like:

“There is no need to be rude, Doctor. I predict that without my advice, there will be a fourteen point drop over the course of a five-game match due to your fumbled sets.”

And Bones mutters choice insults under his breath.

It’s at that point that Jim remembers coaches also have to be responsible for the emotional state of their players. And he thinks that this particular style of motivation, while successful in the short term, may not be the best long term strategy.

Jim doubts that Spock picked this method _intentionally_ as a motivational tool. It’s just a convenient coincidence that this is how Spock is.

◦◦◦

It’s an entirely different kind of energy playing in an empty stadium. Normally, the crowd would be roaring.

With no audience, this almost feels like a practice match. But it’s not. Even if Bones’ jersey, with the name covered over in masking tape, and a handwritten ‘McCoy’ carefully penned in with sharpie, makes this feel like a friendly match up.

The US team stands on their service line. Pike, Uhura, and Spock all stand in front of their folding chairs on the sidelines. Pike’s got his arms crossed; his clipboard squashed against the side of his torso as he watches the proceedings.

Japan’s got their own impressive lineup across the court on their service line. Tsukishima Kei has a resting bitch face like no other.

The main referee blows his whistle from the ref stand above the net line. There is no exchange of hand-slaps under the net and ‘good lucks’ between the teams before the start of the match. That was one of the additions to the list of changes put into effect as a safety precaution to limit the spread of the virus.

The US team moves directly onto the court, while Jim, as captain, jogs over to the ref stand to participate in the coin toss.

Sawamura Daichi, Japan’s team captain, calls heads. It’s heads. Japan has first serve.

◦◦◦

They’re playing in the same rotation lineup that Jim picked out as the best option from the board earlier. Bones, Khan, and Scotty are all in the back-row, with Bones starting in the server’s position.

The lineup itself is the best option possible. But the starting rotation is a mistake. Khan shouldn’t have started in the back-row.

Japan runs up a ten-point lead at the start of the match. None of the plays lead to lengthy rallies. They target Khan specifically, as the weakest passer, by serving to his section of the court. By the time Bones drops back to take the serve-receive instead of Khan, Japan’s had five aces. Then it’s another three points won off of plays where Hikaru steps in to set.

Pike calls a time-out when the score stands at 2-12.

He looks at everybody in the huddle. He hadn’t gotten the chance to actually watch this incarnation of the team at this morning’s impromptu practice. He was too busy making sure this incarnation of the team would actually get a chance to play.

“Pull your heads out of your asses, people! You know how to do this.” Pike sighs, and he waves his clipboard at each one of them. “I’m not trying to berate you. But we need to stop their momentum. I recognize that this is new, and you need a couple plays to get your heads on straight. Well, you’ve got them, now get your heads on straight.”

Spock interjects, “Coach Pike, if I might make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead, Spock.”

Spock addresses the team. “Japan knows that as a team we rely heavily on our offensive power. They focus their defense on this fact, by putting a majority of their efforts into the block. Since our attacks are not currently well coordinated, it would make sense for the setter to try tipping at the net instead of a set. The surprise may take them off-guard.”

Pike nods. “And even if it only works once or twice, once they know we are willing to send them short free balls, it’ll keep the block off the hitters as they watch for the setter’s tip.”

Which should make coordinating an attack a little easier. The ref blows the whistle, signifying the end of the timeout.

Jim says. “USA, on three.”

They all put their arms in, and on three, shout, “USA!”

The huddle breaks. Turns out the timeout itself was enough to mess with the energy over on Japan’s side of the court. They become lax with the impressive lead and give up enough points for the US team to come back 14-19.

After two shut-out blocks from Japan’s Tsukishima Kei, Bones finally tries a tip. He’s a little more obvious in the play than Spock ever is, but it still manages to surprise the Japanese team. Nobody is covering for the short balls.

15-21.

Bones gets a setting rhythm going. Scotty manages two kills. Khan gets one. But it’s too little too late because Japan’s lead is too large to catch up before Japan reaches game point.

18-25. Japan takes the first game.

They have to take the best of five games in order to win the match and secure the gold medal. In the best case scenario, for the US to win, they’ll take the next three games consecutively. If Japan manages to take one, and the US takes two, they’ll go to the fifth and final game. The tie-breaker, that runs only to 15 points instead of 25.

Of course, the worst case would be Japan winning the next two games, and ending the match there, just like that.

Japan and the US swap sides of the court.

Pike holds out his clipboard and shows the new and improved starting lineup. It’s the same order, but rotated around, this time Khan is starting middle front, with Pavel in the middle back. Jim is left-back.

The US team will start with the serve this game, since Japan got the starting serve the last game. Meaning that hopefully, the US can start with a run of serves. And even if they don’t manage that, it’s only one rotation until Jim is in the front row.

This strategy works out even better than expected.

Hikaru starts on the serve. He’s not the most powerful server. But he has accuracy. He doesn’t hit out of bounds.

There’s no aces, and Japan returns the ball on every play. The real winning factor for the US is that Japan’s starting middle blocker is Shouyou Hinata. A player considerably shorter than everyone else on the court. He’s got a huge jump and is a powerhouse hitter. He killed a ton of balls in the last game.

But in the middle-blocker matchup between Hinata and Khan, Khan stuff blocks Hinata every time. Japan is forced to set outside to Sawamura Daichi. The attack still comes in hard. It’s a predictable kind of power, though.

Pavel digs it up.

Bones sets. Scotty hits and scores.

5-0. Then Japan changes the routine. Hinata crosses from the middle, behind the setter, Kageyama Tobio, for a right-side quick. The ball smacks down the line past Jim’s defenses.

Japan has the serve again. 5-1.

The ball is up. Pavel receives, and Jim starts calling for a hit that he’s done with Spock hundreds of times. One they didn’t practice at all with Bones. A back-court attack.

Scotty’s still in front of Jim at the ten-foot line calling for an outside attack.

Jim catches Bones in eye-contact. They have that understanding that a hitter has with a setter. That chemistry of motion.

Scotty moves. Bones sets. Jim moves.

Jim hits.

He makes sure he’s behind the ten-foot line when he jumps. It would be illegal otherwise, for a back-row player to make that attack.

The angle of the ball is different coming from the back court. You can’t just hit it straight down. It has to travel far enough forward to make it over the top of the net. That makes the back-court attack limiting in some cases.

The advantage of it is the timing. The rhythm. It takes longer for the ball to travel from the set to the ten-foot line. And it takes longer again, for the ball to travel from the ten-foot line back to the net to cross into Japan’s territory.

Japan tries to block Scotty. They don’t even see Jim, until Scotty’s coming down from his jump, and there behind him, is Jim, hanging in mid-air.

6-1. The US has the serve again. Jim rotates into the front row. Scotty rotates to the back for the serve.

This is the only rotation with Jim and Khan in the front row at the same time. It’s a dynamic combination, only tempered by the fact that Bones is setting from the front row, too. They only have the two front-row hitters.

Hinata is still the middle blocker on the other side. Japan can’t block Jim and Khan together. The US runs up points in a series of rallies that is reminiscent of Japan’s own playstyle from the first game.

12-1. Then Japan scores again, their setter Tobio, not bothering to set any of his hitters, instead attacks the ball himself on the second contact, sending it deep with no block stopping him.

12-2. Japan has the serve. But once again, the large lead early in the game makes it hard for the trailing team to catch up. The points go back and forth. Three more for Japan. One for the US.

13-5. Four for the US. Two to Japan.

17-7. A quick succession of points. One here. One there. Two here. Three there.

20-11. One here. Two there.

21-13. On the US team’s next point, Jim’s rotated all the way around the court. They’re back in the unstoppable combination of Jim and Khan hitting Bones’ sets from the front row, with Hinata trying to soft-block on the other side of the net.

The US wins the second game 25-13.

The teams swap sides. Pike does not change the starting lineup. Japan _does_ change the starting lineup. It’s no longer Hinata starting front-row against Khan. Now it’s Tsukishima Kei. Blocker against blocker.

The third game is much, much closer. Not only has the US team found its rhythm between passer, setter, and hitter. But the US and the Japanese teams have found a rhythm between offense and defense.

They’ve learned each other’s go-to plays. The players know what to watch for. It’s in this game, that it starts to be less about the strategy and more about the skill of the athletes. Jim tries to angle his attack between the receivers in the back row, into the weak zones of the defense, attempting to force an error.

21-22. Bones backs into the net on a set. The whistle blows. The rally is over. Net violation. Japan’s point.

21-23. Pike calls a timeout.

He doesn’t have to tell the team to get their head’s on straight. Everyone’s head is in the game. This timeout is another ploy to stop Japan’s momentum before they score the final two points and win the game.

Pike gives everyone the time to drink some water and stretch out their muscles. It’s almost the end of the third game of non-stop play, and if they’re not exhausted now, they will be by the end of the fourth game.

Jim takes the opportunity to do something drastic that could either guarantee them their victory or turn out to be a monumental mistake.

He pulls Bones aside.

“Let me set you.”

Bones barely stops himself from spit-taking. He sets his water bottle aside. “What?”

“Let me set you.” Jim says again. “Japan hasn’t seen you hit before. Not even if they saw game footage from two years ago.”

“Yeah. Because I’m a setter not a hitter, goddammit!” Bones frowns. “I’m not even a setter. I’m a former libero, and a doctor!”

“That’s exactly why I need to set you. They won’t expect you to hit. They won’t see it coming, it’ll throw them off and we’ll win the point.”

“Can you even set?” Bones looks him over, assessing skeptically.

“If you hadn’t agreed to play. I would have been setting for this match. That’s what we were rehearsing at yesterday’s practice after Spock broke his finger.”

It’s a huge risk, trying something new mid-game like this. Even more of a risk than the back-court attack Jim pulled out of his sleeves earlier. Because Bones is right, he’s not a hitter.

The whistle blows. Timeout’s over. They have to get back out onto the court, now.

“Yes. Or no.” Jim says. “It’s simple. Do you trust me?”

And Bones says, “Yes.” He sighs, muttering about how this plan is going to ruin everything.

Japan subs in Yamaguchi Tadashi for the serve. Their team is also down a bunch of players on the roster, but they’ve at least got enough people to have the privilege of making substitutions.

Scotty and Khan are in the front-row with Bones, on the outside and the middle, respectively. There’s not enough time to get everyone in on the plan, so Bones has to hit on the right-side.

The serve goes up. It’s a short ball, and Pavel dives out into the front-court, sprawling, to pop it up. Jim moves.

He runs up to the net, into position. He’s facing towards the outside and middle hitters, in the opposite direction from the right side. So, when his hands come up, and he takes the ball into his fingertips, he arches his whole body backwards, bending his spine. His arms extends behind him, pushing the ball out of his field of vision.

He just has to trust that his body knows the motions, has the muscle memory to execute the skill. He just has to trust that Bones is there, on the right side to take the hit.

Bones is there. He contacts the ball.

And hits it straight into the net.

Japan’s point. 21-24. Game point.

Bones is muttering.

“Hey.” Jim says.

Bones looks away. Then he looks back and makes eye contact. “I’m going to cost you this game. I’m going to cost you the gold!!”

“No.” Jim grabs his arm. “I’m going to set you again. And you are going to be there. You are going to hit the ball, and we are going to win the next point. I trust you.” He stares into Bones’ eyes.

And then he walks away, back to position to receive the serve.

Hikaru passes the serve up. Jim runs to the front court, gets in position, arches his back, sets it up.

Bones hits it. Jim turns, preparing to cover, in case Japan blocks.

The ball is teetering on the top of the net. Oh. Bones tipped it.

It could go either way. The ball falls. Onto Japan’s side of the court. Daichi is there, trying to pick it up, but the ball hits the ground.

22-24. The US team rotates before the serve, Jim is in the front row again. It’s Khan, Bones, and Jim.

They could revert to Bones setting for Jim and Khan.

Or Jim could keep setting.

Jim goes to Khan. “I’m setting.” It’s a statement of fact. “I want you alternating between hitting outside and middle. I’ll throw you hand signals.”

Scotty serves.

Japan passes, sets. Ryuunosuke Tanaka hits it from the outside. It’s a tough dig, Pavel and Hikaru both chase after it. Any other combination of players and those two may have collided, but Pavel and Hikaru have always managed to communicate.

Hikaru lets Pavel take the pass.

Jim rushes to set. Japan is onto this new scheme with Jim setting Bones. They prepare to block Bones.

Jim sets Khan on the outside. Kill.

23-24.

The next play, Jim sets Khan a kill on the middle.

24-24.

They have to win by a differential of two points. As the score stands, now they have to play to 26.

Jim sets Bones on the right side. Bones hits it out of bounds.

24-25.

Jim sets Khan on the middle.

25-25.

Jim sets Khan on the outside.

26-25.

Jim sets Bones on the right side.

Kill.

27-25. The US team takes the game.

Bones runs up to Jim and shakes him. “Good, god, man! Why did you do that to me! I can’t take that kind of pressure; I’ll have an early heart attack at this rate.”

They fall into step as they circle the court to swap sides between games.

Jim grins. “But you did it. I knew you could do it. I trusted you, and you did it.”

Bones expression morphs into some kind of wonder. He swallows and says quieter. “Yeah. I did, didn’t I?”

Pike has exasperation on his face, specifically targeted at Jim, for pulling that kind of stunt. But it’s the fond kind of exasperation. As coach, there’s really only so much he can do. Once the players are on the court, it’s up to the six of them to actually make the match happen.

Pike holds out his clipboard.

He’s changed the lineup.

Hikaru has swapped positions with Jim. Hikaru will be outside hitter. Jim will play right-side hitter.

It’s a 6-2 lineup. As opposed to the 5-1 they played with in the first three games, with five hitters and one setter, there’s now six hitters and two setters.

Jim and Bones will play both right-side hitter and setter. Whoever’s in the back-row will set. No matter the rotation, there will be three hitters on the front offensive line.

The game count stands at 2-1. The US team just has to win this game to take home the gold medal.

Uhura holds up her own clipboard after the team has taken in Pike’s lineup change. “Spock and I have been keeping stats. Japan’s defense is generally weakest in the back left corner of the court. You all should try to hit cross-court from the outside and down the line on the right side. Khan, you’ve had plenty of powerful kills from the middle, but you haven’t done any tips. Try to send them some short balls. That goes for you too, Pavel. When you’re playing middle in the front row, you can send them some tips. Just make sure to target short-court behind the blocker.”

And then they’re back out on the court again.

This game is an exhilarating blur. A rush of plays. Jim’s heart beats in his chest, and sweat pours down his back, soaking into his jersey, before the expensive moisture wicking fabric dries off.

It’s hard to keep track of the points. All of Jim’s attention is on the play. His muscles are tired and heavy from the long hours in the gym yesterday and this morning. Normally, they’d never practice so much on a match day, but this year has not been lacking in exceptional moments.

He probably won’t be able to stand tomorrow with how sore his muscles will be. But it will be worth it, to be able to say, ‘I played my best. I brought my best game. I left it all out there on the court.’ And hopefully, ‘I won.’

Jim sets Hikaru. Jim sets Bones. Jim sets Scotty.

Bones sets Jim. Bones sets Khan. Bones sets Pavel.

Jim squats low, bending at the knees, arms held out in front of himself, watching, waiting for the ball to be returned over the net. Sweat drips into his eyes, stinging them. He blinks it away.

In between plays, they huddle, they cheer. Jim smacks Bones on the ass as they break apart. Bones shoots him a glare.

Bones sets him on the very next play.

Jim moves, runs. Right, … left, … Right-Left! He jumps, momentum pulling him, up, up.

The net is right there.

Arms up, back, swing.

His palm connects with the ball, and it’s the best feeling in the world. The satisfying crack of contact as he pummels it down into the ground.

He kills it.

◦◦◦

The US team wins the fourth game 25-22, for the best of five games at 3-1. It’s a good game, in the same way that it’s a good match. They win based on the efforts of their own abilities. Both teams bringing the best that they can and making it a high-stakes, pressure-cooker that forces them into using every trick in the book.

Bones doesn’t stop smiling the entire time they’re on the podium. Jim doesn’t know what his face looks like, but he can imagine that it looks similar.

That night, Bones is the one fucking into Jim with a gold medal around his neck on their hotel bed.


End file.
